Parton, Lust for Glory

The guitars, the guitars in the dark. They are coming

The only surviving note from the siege of Nashville.

They stand outside our walls, these blonde harpies. They demand their man's return. Which man? We number in the hundreds in our stronghold. They tell us we took him and tempted him with our flaming locks of auburn hair. There is no rhyme or reason to their demands, the last copper-haired man who lived among us died. They trespass against us, step on our blue suede shoes. Their siege of us makes little sense, they only hold to their vigil between the hours of nine and five.

We are the last of the King's followers. When the great civilisation fell, long years after the bombs had fallen, we had only the icons of those long since past. The golden discs, the cherished lyric sheets. We raided cities for their last stocks of pomade, for black dye. Wars were fought over sequined jumpsuits. A jihad was declared against the followers of the false prophet with the blue eyes, his followers, this rat pack, were exterminated. The City of Sin was purged by our hand.

Now we watch them from our walls as they lay siege to our holy land, the land of grace. A last bastion of the King's followers. We stand upon our walls and assail them with jailhouse rocks, accuse them of being hound dogs. This is a time for less conversation. We are shook up by their accusations. They claim that they will always love us but we are not swayed by their words.

Many are not even women. Men in blonde beehive wigs, their chests puffed out with fake bosoms. A sea of pink and sequins, bedazzled jumpsuits, rhinestones as far as the eye can see, sparkles and white, some wear coats of many colours.. Not a single open collar amongst them, or a leather jacket.

They hunker down for the evening. It is a false safety, we know they will return. We gather our men, pray to the holy six string of Gibson, and remain together so we are not lonesome this evening. We know that it is now or never for us tonight. We must embrace each other and not be suspicious in mind.

Her followers return in the light of a clear blue morning. Their siege engines bear down on us. Rocks launched from trebuchets set alight with hairspray. Mortars that explode in glitter and cloud our vision. They have trained little sparrows and butterflies to drop bombs on us.

We are breached. We thought of ourselves as an island in the stream. Hoped they would see that we are the last protectors of the King's legacy. They storm our walls, invade our homes. They promise us that it's all wrong but it's alright. We are surprised to discover they are not savage invaders, they shatter our images of these false presumptions. We find ourselves in accord with them, we join their ranks, marching north in their continued lust for glory.